CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO

CORBAN

Corban stared at Meical and Asroth, both of them sealed in a case of black iron, or whatever it was that had spewed out from the cauldron as a result of the Seven Treasures’ destruction. They looked like two magnificent statues created by a master smith, every detail and proportion exquisite in its perfection. And the iron still steamed, beneath its darkening rime a glow of molten metal.

Corban’s ears were still ringing from the blast, though part of him was aware that it was deathly silent in the great chamber, Kadoshim and Ben-Elim staring in stupefied shock. Some of them moved; a Ben-Elim flew over the flood of molten iron that had slicked the floor and stairs of the dais, hovering close, tentatively reaching out a hand. Fingertips sizzled and hissed as he touched Asroth’s wing, a gasp of pain.

Then a screech from a Kadoshim high in the chamber, a pulse of wings as one of the dark-winged demons flew at the figures, fast as an arrow, straight at Asroth. It smashed into the Lord of the Fallen and was hurled away in an explosion of sparks, its wings igniting, hissing as flame licked at them, eating away a portion of leathery skin before the Kadoshim’s crash and tumble across the flagstones put out the flames. The Kadoshim rose, one wing half-burned, the skin on its shoulder and arm bubbling from where it had been scorched.

Asroth was unmarked.

He is imprisoned, if he still lives.

The other Kadoshim in the room, hundreds of them, must have thought the same thing, for all of a sudden they burst into motion, realization dawning, fear spreading.

Their King had fallen.

Kadoshim fled the chamber like a swarming nest of hornets, swirling upwards, seething through the two great holes in the roof, others beating their wings and flying through the main doors, and everywhere they went, the Ben-Elim went too, hacking and stabbing and slicing at them, sending Kadoshim tumbling through the air to crash around Corban and Storm. One Kadoshim tried to rise but Storm pounced upon it and shook it as if it were a rat.

Corban ran to Cywen and Farrell, both of them were unmoving. He lifted Cywen gently and she stirred and opened her eyes. Dark tears of blood had stained her cheeks, deep into the skin.

“You did it,” Corban said, stroking her cheek.

“Did I?” She blinked. “Well, there’s a surprise.” She smiled.

Corban carried her to where Storm stood over Coralen and Dath, ignoring the few Kadoshim and Ben-Elim that still fought in the chamber, and set her gently down, then he ran back to Farrell, the big man groaning, swaying as Corban helped him stand; he had blood seeping from a wound on his head, his eyes unfocused.

A Kadoshim swooped close to them, Corban and Storm stood ready, but it flew past, hurled itself into a Ben-Elim.

“Gar?” Cywen whispered, taking Corban’s hand.

Corban bowed his head, felt the grief rising, a physical pain in his chest like a fist clenching around his heart. He tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come.

“Where?” Cywen asked him.

Corban turned to point, not trusting his voice, and froze. He saw Gar’s body upon the steps that rose in wide tiers towards the chamber’s open doorway, but it was the figures beyond Gar that he was staring at. A Ben-Elim, wings tattered and useless, fighting another man, tall, slim, his face and head burned and puckered.

“Calidus,” Cywen whispered.

Calidus.

Corban drew his sword, felt a twinge from the wound in his shoulder and took a step forwards. Cywen grabbed his hand, tried to rise.

“No,” Corban said. “Tend our friends. He’s mine.”

“Take Storm,” Cywen said.

“She must stay and protect you all,” he said, looking at the prostrate forms of his loved ones, ordering Storm to maintain her guard. He gritted his teeth and turned away, felt his hatred of Calidus giving him new energy as it bubbled through his veins.

“For Mam,” Cywen said behind him.

“Aye. For Mam. For Gar. For Brina. For Laith,” Corban whispered.

For all those that Calidus put on spikes in Drassil’s courtyard. From the beginning he has been the puppet-master behind all of this. Behind Nathair. He is responsible for Da’s death too, and so many more.

“For everyone,” he said.

“Bring me his head,” Cywen snarled as he stalked away.

He felt a fire ignite within him then. A cold flame, wrath and vengeance mixed, and he began to run.

Calidus fought back and forth across the steps, with a savage twist of his wrist, he sent the Ben-Elim’s sword spinning through the air, then lunged, skewering him through the heart. He kicked the Ben-Elim to the ground, then turned and stared at Asroth, his frozen King.

Then he saw Corban.

Indecision flickered across the Kadoshim’s face. He glanced over his shoulder towards the fading light that poured through the chamber’s open doorway, looked as if he was thinking about running. He must have decided against it, for he turned to face Corban, set his feet and raised his sword.

Corban’s hatred of this man, this creature, boiled up within him, overflowing in a wordless battle-cry that burst from his lips. He vaulted up the steps, leaping over Gar, still screaming, sword held high, gripped two-handed, smashing at Calidus. The Kadoshim blocked, staggering under the power of the blow, retreating as Corban struck again and again and again, wolven claws raking across Calidus’ face, sword shattering a line through chainmail links. A thousand thousand hours of sword dance and sparring, of muscles stretched and pushed and fibres ingrained with forms and combinations and lunges and parries, of sweat and pain, determination and discipline, all were coming out in a few dozen heartbeats as Corban hammered at this creature before him, man, demon, the author of so much evil. Wrapped around all, screaming into his mind, was Gar—a man who had been his friend, his teacher, both brother and father to him…

Rage coursed through Corban, putting greater strength into his blows, more speed, and Calidus struggled; every other blow of Corban’s was landing, Calidus was battered, cut, retreating, Corban powering after him, the rage growing, building, an incandescent fury surging through his veins and limbs until he felt he must glow with the purity of it. Until he felt he did not control his own body.

And he saw something in Calidus’ eyes, a hint of gloating pride.

No. He is luring me, ensnaring me in my rage.

And he remembered Gar’s first lesson to him.

Control your anger, for if it controls you it will surely see you slain.

And slowly Corban reined his anger in, like a runaway stallion, harnessing the power, giving it coalescing focus, directing it all at the death of this thing before him, Calidus. He saw something flash across the Kadoshim’s face: frustration, a frown of disappointment?

“Your death is coming,” Corban snarled at him.

And then the real sword dance between them began.

Back and forth they fought, across the steps, the clash of their blades echoing, Corban drawing on all that he had learned, from Gar, from Halion, from Coralen, from both giants and men, entering that place where his body led him, reacting before conscious thought could have moved him, striking or lunging as opportunities flashed into existence, and Calidus blocked and parried everything, counter-striking, launching into blistering combinations, short lunges, sweeps and chops, drawing upon forms that Corban knew like his own skin, and others he’d never seen before. He had crossed blades with Calidus before, in the giant fortress of Murias. That time Calidus had beaten him and slain his mam, Corban had only been saved by Meical.

But I am a different man now.

He is good. A master, but he has been here a long time, a hundred years, Meical told me, planning and plotting, and learning sword-craft as well, it would seem.

It will not save him.

Corban struck Calidus half a dozen times, blows that would have turned a fight against a normal man, blows that would have let blood flow, brought pain and weakness, but against Calidus they had little impact, no telling effect.

Veradis had told Corban how he’d put a knife in Calidus’ belly, thrown him into a fire, and Alcyon had hit him so hard with a war-hammer that his body had smashed stone, and yet he’d walked out of the flames, pulled the knife from his belly and brushed the splintered rock from his clothes.

He is not like these new Kadoshim, his true self become flesh. He lives in a host body, like the possessed Jehar.

I have to take his head.

And he remembered how Gar had spoken of fatigue coming upon him as he fought Ildaer, Warlord of the Jotun, a warrior whose stamina could last for a moon, and how the onset of that fatigue had nearly defeated Gar.

And I have to take it soon.

But as he fought Calidus he saw no opening, no weakness, no tell or repeating pattern of blows or combinations that might give him the edge he needed.

“Deatach a chónaisceann,” Calidus muttered, and opened his mouth wide, the same black smoke that had bound Corban and his companions issuing from his throat. Corban felt a rush of fear, but it was different this time: a breeze was tugging at it, fraying it even as it tried to wrap around Corban. It had no more effect than morning mist.

The Treasures, Corban realized. He told Rhin they were making him stronger, so if they are gone, destroyed, then perhaps his powers are weaker now.

Calidus didn’t look happy about the fact.

“Your death is coming,” Corban whispered again.

There was a sudden flapping sound and wings and feathers fell upon them; Craf was descending on Calidus, scratching and pecking, ripping at his face. Calidus reeled back, lashing out. He caught Craf a solid blow with his hand, sending Craf spinning and squawking through the air. He crunched into a step and fell, flapped feebly and then was still. At the same time Corban swung with all his might, but Calidus swayed back, Corban’s sword-point scoring half-a-thumb deep into Calidus’ throat. Blood welled and dripped, but his head stayed firmly upon his shoulders.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Calidus said, his voice different, a ragged croak now.

Corban answered with a combination that sent Calidus reeling, tripping over a step, staggering and leaping out of range. His hand reached inside his cloak, pulled out a fold of fabric. He retreated a few more steps, Corban following. Calidus opened the fabric with deft fingers, revealing…

A flower.

A purple thistle.

And Corban knew it, felt something snatch in his gut, as if a fish-hook were in his belly.

The flower I left upon Mam’s cairn.

Calidus smiled at him, seeing the recognition dawning in Corban’s face.

“A lovely gesture,” Calidus said. “I have her head somewhere.”

Corban flew at Calidus, an explosion—beating, hammering at his enemy. He saw the Kadoshim stumbling, bowed, barely able to meet Corban’s blistering speed and strength. A sound filled Corban’s ears, swamping his whole world. He slowly realized it was his own screaming, and then a quiet voice within his head, a whisper.

Gar’s voice.

Anger is the enemy.

And then he heard Gar whisper something else to him.

Corban saw a smile twitch Calidus’ lips as he flourished the purple flower at him, knew what the Kadoshim was doing, but it felt impossible to control his rage, to do anything other than unleash his wrath and fury. He feinted a blow at Calidus’ belly, knew instantly that it was rushed, then slashed high, but his timing was a fraction out and the twist of his feet left his right side open a moment. He realized his error, began to shift his feet, and then something slammed into him, like a punch, a red-hot pain, lancing into him, through leather and chainmail, into flesh, above his hip. Calidus’ sword was stabbing deeper, Calidus snarling a feral smile as he rammed his blade harder, punching in through Corban’s belly and out through his lower back.

Distantly Corban heard someone screaming.

Corban and Calidus stood like that for a long, frozen moment, Corban staring down incredulously at the sword that had run him through, blood seeping into his mail shirt, a widening stain, then he looked up to Calidus’ arrogant smile.

And then Corban reached out and wrapped his wolven-clawed fist around Calidus’ hand.

“Sometimes,” Corban grunted, pulling himself up towards Calidus, along the length of the Kadoshim’s sword, grimacing with both pain and rage, “you have to take a wound to give a wound.”

And with all his might, a world of pain exploding in his gut, Corban swung his sword and cut Calidus’ head from his shoulders.